


made of sky and branches, risen from the troubled sea

by Mertiya



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dreams, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2012-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-21 20:51:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/601949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertiya/pseuds/Mertiya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Instead of his habitual nightmares, John has a curious dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	made of sky and branches, risen from the troubled sea

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [dreamboy](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/14679) by br0-harry. 



> This isn't exactly the same as the picture it was based on--in that the picture looks like it probably takes place in Afghanistan and this, well, doesn't. But the inspiration just sort of floated down and decided to be inspiration-y. You guys should totally go check out that picture though because it's fantastic!

_“This figure, made of sky and branches as it is, had risen from the troubled sea…as a shape might be sucked up out of the waves to shower down from…magnificent hands compassion, comprehension, absolution_.”—Virginia Woolf, _Mrs. Dalloway_

            John dreamt.

            He didn’t dream often, anymore, primarily because he didn’t sleep much, or long enough, and when he did sleep, the only dreams he had were more properly called nightmares.  Or memories, but he preferred the term _nightmare_ , as it indicated a fantasy, rather than a reality. 

            In the nightmares ( _the memories_ ), he looked up at the roof of St. Bart’s and pleaded through his cell phone, while the high wind whistled, and Sherlock’s desperate voice echoed through him.  On the nights when he recognized what was happening, he tried to wake up, but the memory wouldn’t release its iron grip on him until the very end, until Sherlock had flung out his arms and jumped, until John’s panicked body had been forced to run around the parking garage, even though he knew what he would find.  He couldn’t claw his way out of slumber without seeing Sherlock’s bloodied face and blank eyes, so he didn’t want to sleep at all.  His nights were filled with Sherlock, his days with emptiness. 

            But he was dreaming now, and it wasn’t a nightmare, or at least not the same one.  In this dream, ( _was he dreaming_?) he was on the moors by Baskerville again, with darkness and mist all around, and the howling of some great beast behind him.  He was running, but he wasn’t scared.  The creature was behind him, and he didn’t have his pistol, but he wasn’t afraid.  His feet impacted the cold, muddy ground, and he was actually laughing.  Finally, he stopped, breathing heavily, and shouted to it, “Come on then!  Come and get me, you great brute!” 

            It dashed toward him, slavering, saliva dripping down its great black jaws, its eyes twin fires in its maddened face, and he laughed and opened his arms to it.  It leapt for his throat, but it never reached him.  Instead, it froze in the air in front of him and slowly dissolved into scintillating dust, as a thin-fingered hand swept through it, scattering it into nothingness.

            “Really, John, sometimes you are almost criminally careless.”  Sherlock wore nothing, though the lower half of his body was mostly obscured in the long grass.  As he took a step toward his friend, John could see that the long form was outlined in silver and dotted with stars, as if Sherlock were made of sky.

            “Sherlock,” he said.  “I thought you were dead.”  It seemed to him that he ought to be surprised to see him, emerging from the long grass with not a stitch on and with a supernova shining above his right cheekbone, but it seemed quite natural.

            “Don’t be ridiculous.”

            “But I saw you,” John protested.

            “Did you?”  Sherlock strode forward, until he was standing directly in front of John, until the vegetation no longer hid him, disregarding the last shreds of modesty with unsurprising ease.  John felt himself flushing, and he rubbed the back of his neck.  “You jumped off a building,” he pointed out.

            Sherlock waved a hand.  “You say you saw me.  Certainly I told you to keep your eyes on me, didn’t I?”

            “Yes,” John replied.  “And I think it was a bloody cruel thing to do, to be honest.  If I didn’t miss you so much, I’d be fucking _pissed_.  I think I still am, actually.”

            “Can you honestly say you followed my instructions?”

            “Yes, I—well.”  John hesitated.  “I tried, Sherlock.  I really tried.”

            “And did you succeed?”

            “There was a bicyclist,” John said.  “Knocked me over when I was trying to reach you.  When I got up, you’d already fallen.”

            “Knocked you over,” Sherlock echoed.  Suddenly, he shot out a long leg and hooked it around John’s ankle.  Startled, John didn’t react fast enough, and he crashed to the ground on his back.  Sherlock followed him down, pressing his entire long form against John’s own.  John froze, stopped breathing.  The warmth of Sherlock’s body, the sudden fast stutter of the heart beating against his own, the awareness of his friend’s proximity—he swallowed and still he couldn’t move.  “Sherlock,” he protested feebly.  “I know you don’t have much grasp on the concept of ‘personal space,’ but I really think—”

            “You don’t, you know.  You see, but you don’t—“

            “Observe.  Yes, I know.”

            “But this time you did not even see.”

            “I saw your body!” John flashed out in anger.

            “You saw _a_ body,” Sherlock corrected him.  He raised a hand to touch John’s cheek, and John couldn’t stop himself from letting out a low, soft sound.  It could have been a moan, or it could have been a sigh.  Sherlock smirked, that infuriating grin that John had wanted to wipe off his face more times than he could count, and this time, it seemed very natural to do just that, to reach up and hook a hand behind Sherlock’s neck, pull him down and press their lips together.

            The lips on his own were hot and soft, the body pressed against his own warm and racing with life, and he wrapped his arms around Sherlock and held him close, and he was holding sky and sea and stars, because that was what Sherlock was, wasn’t he?  John’s world.  John’s whole world. 

            Sherlock responded to the kiss enthusiastically, a low growl rumbling through his throat, his hands clutching tight at John’s shoulders just as John’s own hands tangled in the long mane of curly hair.  John found his tongue probing at Sherlock’s mouth, and when the full lips parted, he made a noise that was almost a groan as their tongues touched and caught and danced.

            Sherlock pulled away, and John made a huff of protest, but then Sherlock was kissing up the side of his throat and _oh god_ all the way from his collarbone to his ear, where he paused and breathed, in a voice even deeper and throatier than his usual rich baritone, “I told you, John.  It’s a trick.  It’s all a magic trick.”

            John’s eyes opened, and he was looking right into Sherlock’s, made green and guileful in the strange starlight, and then Sherlock’s form was dissipating into mist, but his voice still echoed in John’s ear.  _It’s all a magic trick._

            John woke slowly.  He was lying on the couch in Baker Street, and he could hear Mrs. Hudson moving around one floor down.  He was sticky and sweaty, and he could still feel Sherlock’s phantom form pressed against his own.  He swung his feet over the edge of the couch and sat up.

            _It’s all a magic trick_.

            Could it be as simple as that?  A bit of verbal misdirection, a failure to keep his eyes on his friend—

            _Could Sherlock be alive_?

            John’s hands were shaking as he reached for his cell phone.  He wasn’t even sure what he was doing.  He couldn’t figure out why Sherlock wouldn’t have told him if he was still alive, but--

            _Magic?_ he typed.  He pressed _send_ before he could think better of it and then sat for a few long minutes on the couch before throwing the phone to the floor.  Stupid idea, really, he thought, blinking back the tears that were threatening again.  He ran a hand through his hair and pulled his dressing gown tighter around him as he got to his feet with a sleepy groan.

            He was halfway across the room when his phone beeped.

            _Henry Fishguard. –SH_

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> For reference:
> 
> Watson: So. Did you just talk to him for a really long time?  
> Sherlock: Oh! Henry Fishguard never committed suicide. Bow Street runners. Missed everything.  
> 


End file.
